Mark serving the VicarThe weekend began, as so many important events do these days, with the arrival of le Comte’s friend Mark. Whenever an extra pair of hands is needed or le Comte needs cheering up, Mark instantly appears, courtesy of Ryanair. For Mark, Chateau Coldspot is not ‘humdrum everyday life’ as it is for us, but an adventure. While his alter ego sits quietly in his Suffolk office and does accountancy sums, at Chateau Coldspot the ‘real Mark’ emerges, taking on whatever challenges life at the Chateau throws at him. He has been scripted into various roles – wild boar hunter, pool cleaner, skier, golf buddy - but this time we had something different in mind; he was to be a cocktail waiter.
Le Comte and I had already made several visits to le Megamarche in la Grande Ville and bought a variety of different coloured potions. We had sent out the English invitations by internet to all our various friends and acquaintances; I had translated it into French and distributed it amongst our various Gallic amis. No one had anything else to do on a damp Saturday night at the end of February. Everyone was coming.
Le Comte, as usual, had set himself a list of tasks to be completed before the party. The main one was finishing the downstairs loo.
[It should be noted here that le Comte and I met when he came to install a new heating system and downstairs loo installed in my former house back in dear old Angleterre. I instantly spotted his potential and snapped him up. (He doesn’t realise this of course, he thinks it was a very romantic whirlwind courtship). Having thus captured him I moved him to France to renovate a very large chilly Chateau – and a very good job he is making of it, but until now it has lacked that all important accessory, the downstairs cloakroom].
Of course, as we now have six self-contained holiday apartments at Chateau Coldspot, there are various loos around the place and some are ground floor, but the Happy Holidaymakers object if you dash in to relieve yourself while they are in residence. Consequently, visits from our extended families in the summer months can be testing and invariably a queue forms along the corridor.
No longer, le Comte has sorted it – the inside part, anyway. There is still a large open drain in the courtyard but that’s okay as it’s discreetly covered with an old door.
Builders and plumbers amongst you will not be surprised to learn that the new cloakroom took several days – first fix, second fix, plasterboard, paint etc., and then there was the essential golf day with buddy Mark. This meant that all the food and party prep was left for the Saturday. While Mark, Princess 2 and I were shopping, scrubbing, moving furniture and blowing up balloons, le Comte was up to his elbows in pastry dough creating tartlets à la Coldspot, wrapping delicate rings of parma ham round cream cheese, marinating brie in olive oil and herbs and spearing everything in sight with coloured sticks. To complement the event we had purchased tiny cocktail parasols, shakers, mixers and sparkling wine and fruit for a delicious punch and very smart it all looked, set out on the bar. Le Comte cooked and assembled tirelessly until 6 o clock and the scene was almost set, when, due to a problem with my French translation, the first guests arrived.
Oh dear.
‘That’s because you put 8pm au plus tard’,’ explained Princess 1 frowning first at the invitation and then at me. ‘That means “at the latest”.’
‘Does it? Oh bother.'
The guests had arrived thinking we they had been invited for that oh so French tradition, the aperitif (Eng; pre-dinner booze-up). A glance in the mirror confirmed that I looked like a scarecrow. They stood for a few moments in the kitchen surveying the piles of washing up and chopped vegetables in bemusement while I tried to persuade them that “of course, it would be fine if they sat and waited for an hour and a half for the soiree to begin and they wouldn’t be in the way at all.”
Despite my protestations and apologies they left, though later, fortunately, returned.
By 8pm I was less scarecrow-like, wearing the blue and silver dress that was a present from le Comte, and everyone else arrived. Lots and lots of people filling the Chateau as it should be filled. Le Comte dished out champagne punch, Mark created Tequila Sunrises, Mojitos and other cocktails for our guests – including multiple Screaming Orgasms for the vicar – and the princesses with little friend Gnoémie handed out platters of delicacies.
The evening wore noisily on and Princess 2 turned up the music and started to dance. She was soon joined by numerous others including our octogenarian golfing friend Charles. Who would have thought it! Sixty years ago in the Bronx he must have been some mover! Meanwhile non-dancers sat comfortably around the peanuts, chewing the cud and nursing their drinks.
All too soon guests began to leave – many had long drives home. By midnight just le Comte, Mark, the Princesses, Gnoémie and I were left in our empty Chateau with the fires dwindling in the grates and the music still thumping.
We were on a roll. Le Comte fixed us all another cocktail (with a soupçon of Malibu for Gnoémie and Princess 2) and we carried on dancing and dancing...
We are dancing still.
Le Comte and I had already made several visits to le Megamarche in la Grande Ville and bought a variety of different coloured potions. We had sent out the English invitations by internet to all our various friends and acquaintances; I had translated it into French and distributed it amongst our various Gallic amis. No one had anything else to do on a damp Saturday night at the end of February. Everyone was coming.
Le Comte, as usual, had set himself a list of tasks to be completed before the party. The main one was finishing the downstairs loo.
[It should be noted here that le Comte and I met when he came to install a new heating system and downstairs loo installed in my former house back in dear old Angleterre. I instantly spotted his potential and snapped him up. (He doesn’t realise this of course, he thinks it was a very romantic whirlwind courtship). Having thus captured him I moved him to France to renovate a very large chilly Chateau – and a very good job he is making of it, but until now it has lacked that all important accessory, the downstairs cloakroom].
Of course, as we now have six self-contained holiday apartments at Chateau Coldspot, there are various loos around the place and some are ground floor, but the Happy Holidaymakers object if you dash in to relieve yourself while they are in residence. Consequently, visits from our extended families in the summer months can be testing and invariably a queue forms along the corridor.
No longer, le Comte has sorted it – the inside part, anyway. There is still a large open drain in the courtyard but that’s okay as it’s discreetly covered with an old door.
Builders and plumbers amongst you will not be surprised to learn that the new cloakroom took several days – first fix, second fix, plasterboard, paint etc., and then there was the essential golf day with buddy Mark. This meant that all the food and party prep was left for the Saturday. While Mark, Princess 2 and I were shopping, scrubbing, moving furniture and blowing up balloons, le Comte was up to his elbows in pastry dough creating tartlets à la Coldspot, wrapping delicate rings of parma ham round cream cheese, marinating brie in olive oil and herbs and spearing everything in sight with coloured sticks. To complement the event we had purchased tiny cocktail parasols, shakers, mixers and sparkling wine and fruit for a delicious punch and very smart it all looked, set out on the bar. Le Comte cooked and assembled tirelessly until 6 o clock and the scene was almost set, when, due to a problem with my French translation, the first guests arrived.
Oh dear.
‘That’s because you put 8pm au plus tard’,’ explained Princess 1 frowning first at the invitation and then at me. ‘That means “at the latest”.’
‘Does it? Oh bother.'
The guests had arrived thinking we they had been invited for that oh so French tradition, the aperitif (Eng; pre-dinner booze-up). A glance in the mirror confirmed that I looked like a scarecrow. They stood for a few moments in the kitchen surveying the piles of washing up and chopped vegetables in bemusement while I tried to persuade them that “of course, it would be fine if they sat and waited for an hour and a half for the soiree to begin and they wouldn’t be in the way at all.”
Despite my protestations and apologies they left, though later, fortunately, returned.
By 8pm I was less scarecrow-like, wearing the blue and silver dress that was a present from le Comte, and everyone else arrived. Lots and lots of people filling the Chateau as it should be filled. Le Comte dished out champagne punch, Mark created Tequila Sunrises, Mojitos and other cocktails for our guests – including multiple Screaming Orgasms for the vicar – and the princesses with little friend Gnoémie handed out platters of delicacies.
The evening wore noisily on and Princess 2 turned up the music and started to dance. She was soon joined by numerous others including our octogenarian golfing friend Charles. Who would have thought it! Sixty years ago in the Bronx he must have been some mover! Meanwhile non-dancers sat comfortably around the peanuts, chewing the cud and nursing their drinks.
All too soon guests began to leave – many had long drives home. By midnight just le Comte, Mark, the Princesses, Gnoémie and I were left in our empty Chateau with the fires dwindling in the grates and the music still thumping.
We were on a roll. Le Comte fixed us all another cocktail (with a soupçon of Malibu for Gnoémie and Princess 2) and we carried on dancing and dancing...
We are dancing still.
No comments:
Post a Comment